Eighty-Sixed [manxman]

XXIII | Facets of Trust |

XXIII

| Facets of Trust |

-

The patio froze my bare feet, creating a bone-deep ache. I savored it in the same way I enjoyed every bit of the drag I took off my cigarette. A nasty habit I picked up after my parents died, but managed to quash a couple years ago. Even so, when I got stressed, my fingers twitched, craving the smooth burn of nicotine and tobacco. The smoke and vapor mingled in the air as I exhaled into the dark.

I'd woken up alone about an hour ago. My head throbbed like someone had an ax, splitting it in two. A hollow void opened in my chest again, engulfing any shred of joy and sinking me into the darkest corners of my mind. All I could think about was Garcia. He had trained me, molded me, truly forged me into the weapon he wanted. How had it happened? Why did my parents trust him? What made Garcia stand out among the rest, made my parents believe he could make me into the man I was meant to become?

The urge to be angry with them burned in the pit of my stomach, but each time I picked at it, I felt guilty. My parents wouldn't have set me up with someone like Garcia if they had known. There had to be another explanation. I didn't know how I'd ever get it out of Garcia, or how I'd ever be able to believe what he told me.

I wanted to talk to my parents. If I could ask them, try to understand... On top of everything else, the pain of missing my parents ripped through me. The image of Garcia pulling the knife from my father's chest kept replaying in my head. Again, I took a long drag from my cigarette. I wanted to be on a job, focused, no other thought in my head except the kill. The heavy weight of a gun in my hand, cool metal kissing my palm, fuck... Even that simple pleasure had been ripped away from me. How much was because I truly questioned my morals, and how much had Garcia manufactured my morality crisis? What in my life was mine? What was Garcia's? Where did I end, and where did he begin?

A cool breeze wound past the trees, and I shivered and swore. A sharp pain pierced through my shoulder where I was stabbed. I sunk further into the sweatshirt someone changed me into. I finished my cigarette and ground it out on the cement before heading back inside. I snuck through the house and back into my room. Grabbing a fleece throw from the bed, I wrapped it around my shoulders and sank down.

Monsters walked among us. Down each street, in every town, all across the globe. But what made a monster? The mere act of killing wasn't enough. Some murders were justified--self-defense, protecting family, freedom, a country. Perhaps the intention behind the kill determined whether the murderer was also a monster. So, the question then became, was doing a job, even one requiring the taking of someone else's life, enough to make a monster?

Garcia was a monster. He took what he wanted without consideration for others. Everything he did was for nothing more than his own personal gain. I couldn't say that I was much better. Even trying to turn my life around over the last couple of years, who was to say I hadn't done that for my personal gain as well?

My attention snapped up to the door as it creaked lightly, swinging open. Oliver stepped inside, gently pushing the door closed behind him. He turned, freezing when he saw me watching him.

"Hey," I said, my voice sounding too loud for the silence blanketing the house.

"Hey." Oliver shifted his weight, looking like a child sneaking around past their bedtime. The nervousness relaxed as he continued to watch me, however. It bloomed into curiosity, maybe some concern. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know." Pursing my lips, I scrubbed my hands down my face. My eyes felt heavy. "All this shit with Garcia... He trained me as a kid. My parents hired him to come into our home for him to teach me how to take a life. I'd hang on his every word, do everything I could to make him proud, and it's like he just used me. And then he killed my fucking parents on top of it."